


the coldest whisper

by MavenMorozova



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bullying, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Halloween-Inspired, Inspired by Poetry, Manipulation, Masturbation, Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom, One Shot, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Teenage Tom Riddle, The Chamber Of Secrets, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, Young Tom Riddle, mostly?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26876482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MavenMorozova/pseuds/MavenMorozova
Summary: June 13th, 1943. The worst of love stories ends. A girl dies. A ghost is born.
Relationships: Moaning Myrtle/Tom Riddle, Moaning Myrtle/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16
Collections: MagicalNet Poetry NEWTs, Whumptober 2020





	the coldest whisper

**Author's Note:**

> written for a few things:  
> @magicalnet 's September poetry NEWTs event  
> @hprarepairnet / @slytherdornet 's Obscure Characters events (myrtle)  
> @whumptober 's Day 6: "stop, please"  
> I'm a little late for ALL of these lmao but we're gonna roll w it
> 
> warning: this fic is DARK. read at your own discretion.

__ Down, down that town shall settle hence  
_ Hell, rising from a thousand thrones  
_ __ Shall do it reverence

— _ The City in the Sea _ by Edgar Allan Poe

Late on the night of the 13th of June, 1943, a young girl of merely fourteen walks along a shadowed corridor, her own figure ensconced in the darkness as she stays to the side of the hall, fingers dragging along the cold stone wall. Although you would be unable to tell at first glance, this girl is hiding. She is hiding from what the school says is a monster and what she says is a curse. She is hiding from a boy who promised her everything and gave her nothing. But mostly, she is hiding from a cruel bully who teases her about her glasses, taunts her for being muggle-born (or as she would say,  _ mudblood _ ), and in the end leaves her in the corridor surrounded by her few possessions scattered around her, students skirting around her as she begins to cry.

She is  _ always  _ crying.

But tonight, she promises herself that she will cry no longer. She promises herself that she will, for once, just stay out of the way and hide in the bathroom until everything is over. Perhaps, even, she will talk to Tom, ask him to distract her from the world and the terrible people that inhabit it, despite the fact that she knows that he is the king of them all. If he rules the school, she is sure he can stop it, all the teasing and taunting and everything else. But he does not. He chooses not to. So of course, the girl knows that he does not truly care for her.

But none of that matters to her. She wants to feel his hand twisting around her head as he grips her hair, she wants to drink in the way he presses his lips to hers and takes her even when she is not ready for him, to feel his skin against hers in the most intimate way, to see the way he stares at her with that signature conflicted expression. _ I hate you _ , that expression says.  _ I want you _ , that expression says, too. She knows that Tom is ashamed of the way that he loves her body; she knows that he hates everything that lies in her blood. What he would call tainted magic. Dirtied magic.  _ Unnatural  _ magic.

He is the worst of them all, and that makes him all the more enticing to her. She can not stay away. She can never stay away.

She reaches the bathroom door and pushes it open with a pale hand, adjusting her glasses when she steps inside and adjusts to the gloom. It would be useful to have a candle, but there are none. Then she remembers—

“Lumos,” she mutters sullenly, annoyed with herself as she pulls out her wand. The bluish light bounces off the mirrors around her, and the girl sighs. This is her hiding place. This is her refuge. She locks herself in a stall and leans against the door, hand running down her face. She is so tired. She wants it to end. And she is sure that the only thing that can stop her from doing something terrible is Tom.

_ Tom, Tom, Tom _ .

She thinks of him now. Pale face, almost unnaturally so. Surprisingly soft pink lips and sharp cheekbones and jawline. Dark, dark eyes with a hint of what she sometimes suspects is red. Petite features. Intense gaze that makes her weak every single time. She has sensed the darkness in him since he began to take interest in her, and she is smart, smart enough to know that he dictates everything done in the Slytherin House. He is their King; they are his Court. He is powerful and dangerous and one day he will become a formidable Dark Wizard.

It makes her wet just thinking about it, and that sickens her, but she is alone in this bathroom, and it is night, so she slips her hand beneath her robes anyway and begins to touch herself, imagining Tom fucking her up against the wall, telling her what a dirty whore she is as she begs him to make her come.

The bathroom door creaks open, and the girl freezes. She has forgotten that she was meant to be hiding from Olive Hornby, forgotten that her tormenter likes to break the Hogwarts rules, too, flaunting her disobedience as she roams the halls at night.

Slowly, the girl removes her hand from her underwear, licking the sticky wetness from her fingers to clean herself. The taste is bitter and pungent, but she is used to it by now.

“Warren?” a sickly-sweet voice asks from somewhere near the sinks. “Warren, is that you in here?”

The girl wants to cry. And she does.

“Oh, it  _ is  _ you, then,” the girl’s voice says with mock-pity. Olive Hornby. “Miserable, moping, moaning Myrtle.”

The girl lets out a choked sob. She never wanted this. Never wanted any of this.

Minutes later, she is lying on the dirty tile floor of the girl’s bathroom in tears, her glasses shattered beside her, and her wand cast across the room, probably in one of the toilets. Grime and tears streak her face. She wants to die. “Why?” she asks the older girl standing above her, but Olive Hornby only laughs and struts away, slamming the bathroom door behind her with glee.

The girl, Myrtle Warren, is left there, and she allows herself to cry, as she always does. When she has depleted all the tears her body can afford, she drags herself into one of the stalls and slumps onto the closed toilet lid. She will stay here for just a little longer before cleaning herself up and returning to bed.

Just then, the door opens again, and the Myrtle feels a surge of rage sweep up her spine like a thousand tiny needles. She has finally had enough, so she unlocks the door to yell at whoever it is to go away, when something strange happens: the person begins to speak, or rather,  _ hiss _ , making strange choking and slithery noises. Myrtle hears a grinding sound of stone against stone, though she cannot see what it is. Gathering up her courage, she swings open the stall door.

Standing there is none other than Tom Riddle. “What—” Myrtle begins to ask. He is standing before a chasm in the middle of the bathroom floor, the sinks all pushed in a circle around it. That, along with the fact that he is simply standing there, a boy lounging around in a girl’s bathroom, makes her stop mid-question. She is just...confused.

“Myrtle.” Tom’s voice is succinct and short. He sounds just as surprised as she feels. “You’re here.”

“This is a girl’s bathroom,” she replies monotonously, though excitement is beginning to rush through her skin at his mere presence. “What are  _ you  _ doing in here? And what  _ is  _ that?”

Tom barely glances behind him at the hole in the floor. He is silent for a moment. “Do you want to go down with me?” He is hiding something as usual, but this time, it seems to be even curiosity and excitement in his tone. Want, too. As if he has been waiting for something for a long time.

Slowly, Myrtle nods. She cannot help it. She always says yes to him.

Tom holds out his hand, and she takes it. His palm is dry and cold, unusual for a summer night, but Myrtle barely registers it. Her hand is freezing, too.

They slide into the chute together, and Myrtle relishes the way that the cool stone feels against her through her clothes, the way her stomach drops at the fall. It is rather fun, she must admit.

When Myrtle and Tom land at the bottom, she raises her eyebrows, swallowing. There are bones, bones everywhere, and farther along in the corridor, she can see a massive snakeskin. “What is this place, Tom?”

He looks at her intently, and it seems like he is trying to make a decision. “You’ll see,” he finally murmurs, tugging on his hand as he leads them further. Myrtle is starting to feel the prickles of fear digging into her spine and neck, the tines becoming sharper and more painful as the moves, one foot ahead of the other. This is a bad place, and Tom is a bad person. She knows this. But she doesn’t struggle. Her mind tells her that she cannot do such a thing. Even if that voice in her head is Tom speaking to her. It is a lie; it is  _ all  _ a lie.

They reach a rounded door engraves with serpents. Tom hisses again, and the serpentine stone figures slither away, allowing the door to open and them to pass. Inside is a magnificent chamber with massive stone artistry, a long walkway, and a feeling of foreboding even stronger than before.

“Come, Myrtle,” Tom says to her as she stalls at the entrance. “We shan’t keep my snake waiting.” He gives her a slight wink, lips curving into a smirk.

His words send a chill through her, swift and enticing. He has used that euphemism before, and she wants him to take her again in this awful, wonderful place. So she descends the ladder and lands roughly on the stone floor, Tom steadying her with one hand on her back as she wobbles on one foot. He grips her hand again, pulling her to the center of the chamber before an awe-inspiring statue of a head she cannot recognize. His carved hair—or are those flowing waves only snakes?—flows around him, and the way that the statue is formed makes it seem as if his beard is dripping with actual water. “Who is this?” she asks hesitantly.

“This is Salazar Slytherin,” Tom murmurs, looking up at the figure reverently. “Or at least I can assume.”

Myrtle nods. “So...this is a place only Slytherins know of, then?”

“No,” says Tom. “Only I know about it. Only I control it and everything that lives inside of it.” His voice has a dark glint to it now, greed leeching up from the depths of his throat and manifesting like parasitic vines on his tongue. Myrtle can see him, hear him, feel  _ him _ , the  _ real  _ Tom behind the charm and the poise, rising to the surface, and it scares her, but it entrances her all the same. His greed makes  _ her  _ want, his lust makes her  _ need _ , and so she steps closer to him, cold, pale hands clenching at his robes. She kisses his neck gently, and when he places a hand firmly on her breast in reply, she knows that she has done the right thing.

Still, the question lingers in her mind:  _ What did he come here for?  _ And even more than that, Myrtle wonders with a slow pouring out a dread why  _ she  _ is here with him. None of this is for her eyes to see. Not Slytherin’s larger-than-life likeness, nor the serpentine statues lining the damp stone walkway, not the darkness within Tom, which she has only sensed before but now feels with full force.

“Myrtle,” Tom whispers hoarsely, and she can feel the want there. She can feel it, too, in the hardened organ that protrudes from him and pokes at her stomach, reminding her how much shorter than him she is. “Do you know why I allowed you to come here?” He sucks in a breath as Myrtle nips at his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone. She has pulled down the hem of his robes and yanked his shirt open from where it was buttoned. He is pale and lean but somehow powerful, and she revels in the touch of their skin.

“You’re a mudblood,” Tom continues coldly, and from his mouth, the word sets her on fire instead of bringing her to tears. In his mouth, the insult puts her in her place, but at her body’s wants and desires. She  _ wants  _ to be put in her place. She wants to serve him, to  _ worship  _ him. He continues, “You don’t deserve to see the hidden secret of my great ancestor. You don’t deserve to even be in my presence.”

Myrtle does not understand for a moment. Slytherin—his  _ ancestor _ ? But then again, she should not be surprised. When has Tom ever acted as anything less than that? So, instead, she asks, “If I don’t deserve to be in your presence, then why have you allowed me to come so close to you?”

Tom smirks at her double meaning. “You are pure,” he murmurs, stooping over to whisper in her ear, and hand slipping under her robes to touch her. “You have dirty blood, and yet you are so pure. Untainted by Dark Magic. Untouched by anyone besides me.”

She can hear the arousal in his voice, the way he languidly claims her as belonging to him, and she feels herself burn at the proclamation.

“You see, don’t you?” Tom asks slowly. “You will be a willing victim. A spotless, pure, glorious sacrifice.”

For the first time since she has been brought into this chamber, Myrtle fears a spike of true fear that goes beyond a fantasy. Tom’s free hand is wrapped in a vise around her thin wrist, and when she wriggles it, she cannot break free.

He will take her. And then he will dispose of her.

No sooner has the thought crossed her mind than Myrtle is thrust onto the cold, wet stone, the wind getting knocked out of her as she falls. Tom is tearing off her clothes, and she is screaming, but they are so far below the school that she knows no one can hear her.

“Shh,” Tom whispers as he unclothes himself and drinks in her naked body. “It will all be over soon, alright?”

Myrtle whimpers. She has always wanted him, and she wants him now, but at the same time, the thought is revolting. She wants him to control her, she wants him to do whatever he wants with her, and simultaneously, she is struggling to crawl away. Sentiments rise up inside her like a tidal wave, crashing down on her and smothering her senses. She sees flashes of pale, milky-white skin. Smells bewitched cologne on his shoulder. Hears his grunting and moaning. Feels his hard length being thrust inside of her mercilessly.

Like a betrayal, her body responds, hips canting up to meet him, mouth parting as she pants.  _ Tom—stop, please _ , she wants to say, but her voice has failed her, or perhaps Tom has simply used a Silencing Charm. He is enjoying seeing her like this with the utmost powerlessness and vulnerability. She can tell.

She cannot tell how she feels.

When he is finished, spilling his essence inside of her, Myrtle lies on the hard ground, still panting from her own orgasm. She cannot fathom what has just happened, and yet, she also can.

Tom is hissing again. The language emitting from his lips is beautiful, and Mrytle cannot get enough. But that is when she hears a second whisper join his, and a long grinding against the stone along with it. Craning her neck, Myrtle sees a giant serpent slithering from Salazar Slytherin’s mouth, and though she cannot yet see its eyes, she knows that they will be pitiless, just like Tom’s. She wonders how it will kill her. Will she be poisoned by its venom? Stabbed by a long tooth? Eaten alive?

“Goodbye, dear Myrtle,” Tom whispers to her then, leaning down to press a cold kiss to her brow. She feels the sudden chill, the roiling in her stomach, everything,  _ everything _ , filling her at once. She barely has time to think of her short life and the misery it has been before the snake turns its magnificent head, and their eyes meet.

Bright. Enormous. Yellow with flecks of gold. Then, she is dead.

**Author's Note:**

> well. that was a trip! I've written more graphic rape scenes before but it was a totally different dynamic (though in both cases portrayed as bad). It's always interesting to delve into these stories though. and I feel like taking advantage of myrtle in this way while also feeling intense shame about the fact that she's muggleborn would really be in-character for tom/voldemort.
> 
> anyways, let me know what you think! comments are appreciated<3


End file.
